


Sriluur Ink and Copper Leaf on Silk (Imperial Gallery, Kannoh Inya, 3 ABB)

by Mithrigil



Category: Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emperor Thrawn, Empire, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Portraits, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 01:41:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8948302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithrigil/pseuds/Mithrigil
Summary: Pellaeon has never been commemorated in his own right.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [serenityabrin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenityabrin/gifts).



His Imperial Galactic Majesty Mitth’raw’nuruodo, first and only of his name, was not the ruler the galaxy expected, nor perhaps that it deserved, but undoubtedly he was the ruler it required. In his time on the throne, he had already reformed the Senate by incorporating the less seditious members into the Council of Moffs, implemented a judicial court that accounted for laws of true galactic concern, and allowed the diverse cultures of the galaxy to otherwise flourish so long as they did not endanger the posterity of others. Truly, thought Grand Moff Pellaeon, for Thrawn to have achieved such a decisive and lasting victory was not only a credit to him, but to his vision of Empire. And in that Empire, all one had to do was look upon the Emperor to feel secure.

At this moment, Pellaeon was walking behind him in his private gallery in the new palace on Kuat. Now no longer restricted to holographic art, Thrawn’s collection was sprawling, truly massive, with works from all the Empire worlds and hundreds from bygone cultures lost to war and time. They were, of course, impeccably catalogued and laid out, with an eye to both their aesthetic compatibility and their place of origin. Even a layman like Pellaeon--who, in his years under Thrawn, had come by _some_ knowledge, but not nearly enough to call himself a connoisseur--could appreciate the museum as a work of art in its own right.

Apparently done with his assessment of Hutt art and artifacts (the Hutts being a continual pebble in the Empire’s boot), Thrawn turned his considering eye on the central gallery, where his own Empire’s exploits were commemorated. His elegant blue-black eyebrow quirked as he led Pellaeon toward the white marble room, into the broader light where the artworks did not require as much delicate care. “Have you noticed something, your Majesty?” Pellaeon asked, over the echoing of their footsteps.

“I have noticed a lack thereof,” Thrawn said, slowing his trajectory by a wall of Imperial portraiture. Grey- and black- and white-uniformed figures, nearly all human, were captured here in triumph and glory: Tarkin before the fall, Krennic glowing white and red, an enlarged famous holograph of Governor Pryce with the traitor Kallus’s blood still streaking her clothes just before the Mandalorians got her, Vered at Leia Organa’s execution. Some posed, some journalistic, all a testament to the individuals and their part in Thrawn’s reclamation. “Perhaps you too have noticed, Gilad.”

Despite their years of such familiarity, Pellaeon still got chills at the sound of Thrawn calling him by his first name. “Again, your Majesty, you have seen more than I ever could.”

Thrawn smiled, privately and tautly but with that distinct glow to his jewel-like red eyes. “Truly, Gilad? Do you think so low of your part in my Empire that you cannot imagine yourself hanging in my gallery?”

“But I am, your Majesty.” He waved a hand at one of Thrawn’s portraits (traditional art, Chiss and rare Alderaanian pigments on truesilk) in which he was in the background, over Thrawn’s right shoulder. “And I am flattered by my likeness, I assure you.”

Thrawn raised a curled finger to his chin, considering that portrait as well. He still wore white, as Emperor, and still in a military cut, so Pellaeon could not help comparing him in the portrait and in person. The years showed on him humanly, in a tightness of his jaw and desaturation of his hair and skin, but he still cut as fine a figure as he did in preservation. The longer, heavier lines of his white cape with slit sleeves broadened his chest, and each crisp seam proclaimed his thoroughness.

“It is a good likeness,” Thrawn said, “but a true portrait is so much more than that. It is a credit to its commissioner as well as the artist and the subject. Tell me: if you could see yourself preserved in any style, for future generations to admire for your loyalty and discernment, what style would it be?”

“I have never thought about it,” Pellaeon admitted, and it was entirely true. “I’m no expert, of course, so I would be more likely to entrust it to your judgment.”

“I thought as much. But that itself is a choice. You believe your position to be more to my credit than your own.”

“Not exactly, your Majesty. It’s not only fortune that I’ve worked beside you for so long. I did choose this life. But I believe in your authority and your vision, as far as my posterity is concerned. I never expected to be remembered as more than a footnote in your history.”

“That is not the only reason one commissions a portrait.”

“Then what reason would you commission one of me, your Majesty?”

One of Thrawn’s gloved hands came up to trace, delicately, the frame of the silk scene. “The worth of art and culture is incalculable to me, from a strategic standpoint, from a place of understanding. But in the end, art is, at core, for pleasure.”

Pellaeon gulped.

“It would please me to commemorate you,” Thrawn said. “What more reason do I need than that?”

-

Which was how Pellaeon ended up spending an entire afternoon posing for fifteen sketch artists. Thrawn appeared and reappeared between his other occupations, offered a considering word or an evaluation at one or another’s work, and nodded at Pellaeon before leaving again to govern the galaxy.

It was, in a word, uncomfortable. Pellaeon had grown to accept scrutiny as a matter of course when in a position of authority, but having said scrutiny _without_ authority was another matter altogether. He did not feel objectified, exactly, but to be subject to such discernment without having a particular task was completely alien to him. He had nothing to do but exist, and think, and compare the experience to a lifetime of dubiously favorable occurrences.

Eventually, Thrawn returned to evaluate the sketches, and chose an artist and general theme. Though Pellaeon had spent the better part of the day just nodding and letting those who knew better decide, he found himself there again while Thrawn discussed intricacies of composition with the artist, a Weequay ink-painter and his human gilder assistant.

“Traditional,” Thrawn said, “but with an eye to progress. A true marriage of artist and subject.”

 _And commissioner,_ Pellaeon did not say aloud.

-

Pellaeon was not entirely certain where he’d developed the notion that portrait sitting would be the matter of one afternoon, perhaps two. Hindsight proved him so ridiculously off the mark that he couldn’t help but wonder how he’d come to such an erroneous conclusion in the first place.

Of course he still went about his administrative duties, and spent most of most days in holocalls with his subordinate staff. But now he had a civilian shadow, sketching him on a tablet, nearly everywhere he went. After a week, he learned to shut out the sound of a stylus and stopped looking over his shoulder. After two, he outright forgot when the artist was about.

Thrawn, meanwhile, had gone off-planet to oversee a biomechanics effort on Myrkr. Between that and his eventual acceptance of the artist’s presence, it came as a surprise to Pellaeon when his adjutant told him that his schedule would be cleared the following day to sit for the formal portrait.

It was, surely not coincidentally, the same day Thrawn was scheduled to return from his surveillance.

The artist directed Pellaeon to a harshly-lit and white-draped corner. There was also a chair, but the artist told Pellaeon to stand behind and adjacent to it rather than sit. Pellaeon did, and when the artist didn’t remark on him resting an arm on the chair’s back, Pellaeon elected to keep it there. And from then on, it was a matter of standing still, the artist said. That was all.

Pellaeon thought back to the initial sketching, with a roomful of artists all evaluating the way light hit him. This did not feel quite the same, but of the same kind: with a certain perversity, he compared the respective feelings to the discomfort of being in a room in which people were being demonstratively affectionate with one another, versus being in a barracks with a pornographic holo playing. In fact, the more he considered it, being watched and evaluated (and inked) while doing absolutely nothing _was_ perverse, and had a certain sensual awareness to it, bordering on erotic. The more time passed, the starker each sound and minute gesture became: the brush of the artist’s ink on woven paper, the rustle of the draped fabric, the footfalls of distant troopers on their rounds, the too-loud beat of Pellaeon’s heart. Too loud, and too fast, for merely standing still.

The doors at the other side of the room swung open, both at once, and Thrawn entered, his red and white cape fanned out behind him. He met Pellaeon’s eyes almost instantly, but Pellaeon did not move, not even to salute.

After that one glance, Thrawn went straight to the artist and canvas. The artist didn’t work with a fully vertical easel (another of Pellaeon’s expectations dashed), preferring instead a tilted canvas sewn to a frame, and Thrawn considered it with a strange downward slope to his countenance.

“Permit me a moment alone with his Excellency,” Thrawn commanded the artist, who bowed and saluted and left. The guards at the door shut them behind him.

Pellaeon still hadn’t moved. He couldn’t, not under Thrawn’s level, assessing crimson gaze.

“Your Majesty,” Pellaeon managed--his voice was strangely hoarse, as if he’d just woken up. “Is it not to your satisfaction?”

“Of course not, it’s unfinished.” Thrawn came nearer, something cool and foreboding in his smile. “But I am pleased with its progress.”

“Then, your Majesty--”

Pellaeon was cut off by the strangely gentle touch of Thrawn’s gloved hand on his jaw. Thrawn’s skin tended to run cold, in sharp contrast to the inhuman heat of his eyes, and Pellaeon’s breath caught and held, high in his chest.

“It will be a good likeness,” Thrawn said, trailing his gloved fingertips down Pellaeon’s collar to unfasten it, efficiently. “But the likeness is not what concerns me. The perspective is somehow incorrect.”

Torn between considering that statement and abetting the trajectory of Thrawn’s hand, Pellaeon struggled to do both, and had a qualified success. “Well, it can’t be your perspective exactly. You commissioned it, but you’re not the artist. Your Majesty.”

Thrawn continued unfastening Pellaeon’s coat, one pinch at a time. “You are correct, Gilad. But what I cannot impress on the artist, I intend to convey to you.”

“I am, as ever, at your disposal.”

“You misunderstand me,” said Thrawn, though how Pellaeon could misunderstand the obvious intent of Thrawn undressing him would certainly be explained in due course. “I want you as you are. It is my perspective that requires a slight adjustment.”

At that word, _perspective_ , Emperor Mitth’raw’nuruodo got on his knees.

Pellaeon’s mind froze. In all their years, they’d never done this. Not with Thrawn giving. Pellaeon was more than content with things as they were, with their respective roles in intimacy, but if Thrawn was not...

He gripped the back of the chair, but could not move his feet, not even to stagger back in shock. “Your Majesty,” he managed, “are you certain?”

Thrawn, in answer, continued unfastening Pellaeon’s uniform, using both hands now, parting the coat and starting on the trousers. “Do you find yourself at a loss for something to do? I assure you, I am pleased to have you as you are.”

Pellaeon managed to restart his breath. There was still something distinctly wrong about Thrawn beneath him, kneeling before him. Wrong, yes, but in a thrilling way. Like the best parts of this strange artistic scrutiny he’d been subject to these last few weeks.

When Thrawn drew him out of his underclothes, Pellaeon could not suppress the southward rush of heat. He held even tighter to the chair. “I merely mean to--to say, your Majesty, that it’s new. Different. Not unwelcome, and as always I trust your judgment.”

“Gilad.” Thrawn cupped Pellaeon’s hardening shaft, evaluated it and did not find it wanting save for attention. “I know I have your trust. I require assurance of your pleasure.”

And at that, Thrawn sought it. His hand and mouth worked in tandem, cool smooth lips and white hide gloves driving all inhibitions from Pellaeon’s mind. What had been distinctly strange was now thrillingly taboo: Pellaeon knew he was not being _served_ , as he served Thrawn in this position and so many others, but _appreciated_. Savored. Not an object but a subject. Art. And Thrawn was not beneath him, merely changing his perspective. 

He felt cherished, like this. Like a rare treasure, with a use and a history and a place in his sovereign’s esteem.

When Thrawn’s ministrations brought Pellaeon to climax, Pellaeon still had not let go of the chair, and only shifted his heels a very little back. He came in much the same pose he’d be remembered in, and that, too, was a private thrill. Thrawn wiped his jaw as he stood, rubbing a trace of what he had not swallowed into his lower lip, so that when he kissed Pellaeon like a benediction they shared the taste.

“Now, I believe, we have achieved an understanding.”

“Of course, your Majesty.”

-

The portrait was unveiled at a sparsely-attended gathering: mostly the Moffs serving attendance and a few of Thrawn’s favored dignitaries. It showed Pellaeon from the waist up, done in dark inks with gilt edges and highlights, not true realism but with crisp proportions and a faith of anatomy. But the truly remarkable thing about the painting was a foreshortening that even Pellaeon, a layman, could discern; it was drawn as if viewed from out the corner of the artist’s eye, over someone’s shoulder. The painting itself was a sidelong glance at a person who would remain ever at the viewer’s back, staunch and loyal and willing.

It would hang in the Imperial Gallery for generations, and after the sack of Kuat and the reinstatement of the Republic would persist in its own right, a product of its time.


End file.
